You Make Me Spout Poetry Like a Fountain of Cliche
by Corkingly Spiffing
Summary: Pg-13 for a few naughty words. nothing major. Letter to Draco, from Ginny. Told stream-of-conciousness-ly, so some grammatical things wrong.


Authors Note: Hey! I'm not dead! Yay! Thanks to all who care, to those who don't, bugger off! Okay, um. if you know me(and I mean me) personally, you'll see some extreme similarities to what's going on in my life now, and what happens in the story(Hey, babe anyone? I know I want s'more.) . This is a super-mini ficlet. and I don't want to promise any sequels or prequels or a response, because if it doesn't happen, I don't want to anger people. Okay! On to the fic! Happy reading and (hopefully) reviewing!  
  
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It is my belief that nearly every piece of poetry written about love is extremely and irredeemably cliché. Now, I'm not talking about the great and famous poems. Oh no. I'm talking about that crap that mindless, love- struck, bubble-gum snapping teenage girls come up with that I despise. You see I've listened to my fair share of this heinous crime on my sanity in Professor Snape's class. There was even a time when, Goddess help me, that I was apart of this dreaded disease of the hormones. "His eyes are green as fresh pickled toad." Ugh. I'm so disgusted with myself. I could just die every time I think of that miserable day, that miserable poem, that miserable crush.  
  
Now, just who was I kidding, anyway? How was he going to notice me? Ron's kid sister, the youngest Weasley, the Weasley girl child. Not suitable girlfriend, not a girl, not a sexual being. No. Just Ron's bothersome, googly-eyed sister. Just a moving piece of wallpaper. Just a creepy little stalker who worshipped the air around the air he breathed. WELL, I'LL TELL YOU ONE THING! GINNY WEASLEY IS A PERSON, GODDESS DAMNIT! I AM A SEXUAL BEING!! I.  
  
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So sorry about that. Anyway. The point is: Poetry. It's awful stuff, love poems written by girls. It makes the whole race of us seem stupid, and. and girlish. and stupid. Which we aren't. We are the ones in control, women are. Yes.  
  
So, imagine my shock, when one day, I find myself, in the library, writing poetry. I know! I was shocked as well. To see Ginny Weasley, Pillar of Strength for all Feminist, um, what's-its, fall to the cliché of writing love poetry about a boy is just appalling. Especially when the boy is as stupid as you.  
  
Oh, don't sound so shocked. What am I supposed to do? Admit my undying love to you? Write 'Mrs. Virginia Malfoy' all over my parchment? Or how about "GW + DM=Love Forever"? Or, and this one is my personal favorite, "Draco is hott-t-t. I Love Draco."  
  
Oh, yes. Please, Draco. Take me now. I want to copulate with you and produce your offspring.  
  
Well, you bloody well better believe you have another damn think coming if I'm just going to submit to your charms.  
  
And you want to know why?  
  
Because you're mean. You're evil. You wear those hideous snake necklaces. You're stuck-up. You think everything will be handed to you on a silver platter because it will match your eyes. Because you're rich. Because you are good at Quidditch. You know how to handle a broom. Because you're eyes are so silver, I sometimes find I can't break free off their hold on me. Because when you look at me in the halls, I feel like I'm on fire. Because when you smirk at me, my heart jumps into my throat. Because when you smile at me, really smile, I feel like I'm going to die. Because when you brush past me in the hallway, and you get as close to me as possible, and you graze my arm with your fingers, I get all dizzy and woozy. Because when you whisper, "Hi, babe," to me, and smile, I just want to jump you and snog you and never ever let you go.  
  
So, as you can see, we would never work out, for those many reasons, and for the following:  
  
You make me spout poetry like I am a fountain of Cliché.  
  
Love, uh, no  
  
Forever yours, I mean.  
  
Always and forever, no..  
  
I love you, er.  
  
Take me, Draco! NO! what I mean is.  
  
Respectfully yours,  
  
Virginia Eris Weasley  
  
P.S. Oh, and I guess I should let you see the poem. It doesn't rhyme, so it's not entirely passé, but, well, I best not get into it again.  
  
Well, here it is.  
  
A ray of sun blinds me  
  
When you smile my way  
  
A jolt of electricity  
  
In a mere brush of arms  
  
An intoxicating feeling  
  
With two simple words  
  
And though the word babe  
  
Used to aggravate me  
  
It has now become the key  
  
To my cold and lonely heart  
  
Just say the word  
  
And I'll let you  
  
Fall in love with me. 


End file.
